My Dear Watson
by TheLaziestWriterAlive
Summary: An AU (Alternate Universe) where Sherlock doesn't "commit suicide" after meeting with Moriarty. The consequences, however, may be worse... Character death


Title: My Dear Watson

Genre/Rating: Angst, T (+Possibly hidden Johnlock)

Warnings: Character death (*cough*Moriarty*cough*), Possible mess up with spelling and grammar

Sherlock glared at Moriarty, slowly bringing him back over the edge of the building. Moriarty glared at him teasingly, and smiled a bit.

"I won't do it," Sherlock said with confidence and defiance. "I don't have to, and there is no reason for me to. I can prove Moriarty exists and Richie Brooke is a lie. I can do it and we both know that I can."

Moriarty stared at him for a while, his face blank. Suddenly, he grinned maniacally, laughing out loud.

"I see how it is! You'd rather save yourself than your friends... Quite brilliant, I must say... I never would have thought that you had it in you." His eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure, and his smile widened when Sherlock looked more confused than he had earlier.

"...What are you talking about?" he asked quickly. "My friends have nothing to do with this. This is just between you and I."

"That's what you thought~" Moriarty sang giddily. He jumped in the air cheerfully, landing and swaying a bit. He grinned as he watched the self-proclaimed sociopath squirm under the weight of his words.

Sherlock looked to the ground, calculating and configuring; trying to figure out what had just happened. " I'm..."

"You're what?" Moriarty took slow steps forward. "Amazed? Astounded? Starstruck? ...Terrified, perhaps?" The man leaned in dangerously close to the brunette, whispering in his ear. "Are you intimidated, Sherlock?"

Indeed he was. This was the one thing he had not calculated. Sherlock had been far too busy making plans and trying to find a realistic way to fake his own death, may it have come to that. He was figuring how to make Moriarty break, how to make him talk and tell the world the truth behind his identities. He had forgotten to think about John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade... This wasn't like him. He was too obsessed; obsessed with Moriarty. He hadn't thought of anybody but the two of them.

"F...Fine, I'll do it."

The consulting criminal's eyes widened and his lips pouted into an O shape.

"Nuh-uh uh..." He whispered huskily. "Too late, Sherlock Holmes. They're already dead."

Sherlock jerked back to look at Moriarty. His pale blue eyes had true fear in them. Not a fear triggered by a chemical mixture, no, fear of what was unknown; what he knew was out of his control.

He felt actual, heartfelt fear... Fear for John.

"Wh..who?"

"Everyone~"

"John..."

"More..."

"Mrs. Hudson... and Lestrade..."

"Good... as... dead," Moriarty hissed, spitting out the last word. His mouth opened to laugh, when he paused. His head turned nonchalantly to the street, staring at an approaching cabby.

"There he is..." The villain got a dazed, pleased. "Your dear... Watson..." His voice was soft, as if he were reading the happy ending to a fairy tale. His fairy tale.

Sherlock had the audacity to follow Moriarty's eyes. He saw John step out of the yellow cab.

"Jo..John..." He turned on Moriarty, sizing him up and grabbing him by his collar again. "I said I'd do it! I'll die, alright? Nobody but me has to die! Le... Let them all go!"

Moriarty's eyes widened at Sherlocks' shouting.

"My, my... Somebody is eager..." he drawled on slowly. The detective's heart lurched in his chest when Moriarty smirked and chuckled darkly.

"Burn, Sherlock." He looked back at Watson, who was now drawing closer, stranded in the middle of the street.

Sherlock looked over towards the street, his hands shaking slightly. His eyes widened a bit and his throat constricted.

John stuffed his hands into his pocket, reaching for his phone to call Sherlock.

"I... Jo..."

There was a shot. People gasped, ducking. John fell.

"John!" A stone-cold shiver ran through his veins, and next to him, Moriarty cackled at his reaction.

"You..." Sherlock clenched his teeth, and his mind blanked entirely for the first time in his life. He screamed at Moriarty and lunged at him, and he watched as Moriarty's child-like, terrified face got smaller and smaller until he hit the sidewalk below.

Sherlock stumbled away from the ledge, stuttering nonsense while he tried to figure things out.

_John..._

John felt a pang in his shoulder when he finally regained his senses. His eyesight was distorted and his throat was dry. His cheeks burned and his fingers ached. He lifted his head to look over his body. He saw blood gushing from a wound in his stomach. The wound was fatal, as years on the battlefield could prove.

His head dropped back down to the concrete, and his heart ached, but not from pain.

"Sherlock..."

People started to surround him. They talked to each other. They talked to him. He talked back, a few words, but he wanted to see his best friend one last time. He knew he was going to least he could do was say goodbye to the man...

"John! John!"

John lifted his head again and looked around for the voice calling him. The deep smoothness of it, no matter the panic, told him that it was Sherlock.

"Sherlock...!" John cried out, his voice cracking and weak. He saw a bob of dark, curly hair and immediately reached out for his partner, his flatmate, and his friend. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock shoved his way through the crowd, and calling John's name again, clutched onto his hand and fell to his knees beside him. He paused only to take off his jacket to press it to John's wound.

"John... Oh, God, I'm so sorry, John... I'm so sorry..."

John squeezed his hand gently, trying to calm him down without using too much energy.

"It's okay, Sherlock... It's alright, I'm fine," John smiled at him, knowing that the detective could easily tell that he was in pain. "I'm fine..."

Sherlock looked into his eyes. This was the first time he ever felt like crying. He bit his lip and dropped his head onto John's shoulder.

"I am so sorry..." he whimpered.

"...Sherlock, sto-"

"It's all my fault," Sherlock continued, his voice broken. "I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry... It's all my fault... I couldn't stop him... I tried, and I tried, but it didn't work, he just..."

"Sherlock Holmes! Stop that right now!" Sherlock looked up at John's exclamation. "You are going to stop this, Sherlock. Stop talking nonsense. You are going to straighten up. Do you hear me? Straighten, up. You cannot do this, Sherlock... You have to take care of Mrs. Hudson, do you understand? Don't be a dick, either... …"

Sherlock listened to him, ignoring the tears running down John's cheeks.

"You are going to be fine. This is not your fault," John said, his tone softening. "...You have to take care of yourself... Sherlock, please take care of yourself..." His voice broke. "Don't... don't go back to cigarettes or any of that... Sherlock, you have to stay clean... For me, alright?"

John lifted his hand and wiped away a tear Sherlock was unaware he shed. He kept his hand on the high cheekbones, rubbing his trembling thumb across the skin..

"John, I..." Sherlock stopped, unsure of what to say. He dropped his head so his chin was almost touching his chest, and tried not to feel everything about John's clammy, soft hand. Just the other night, when they were running, the skin was taut and hot... _It's so different now...And the pulse is... …._

"...Don't you dare say you're sorry..." John smiled at him, and he moved to rest his head back down. Sherlock stopped him and kept him propped up on his arm, and moved so his left thigh was under John's head.

"...Thanks... Thank you, Sherlock..."

Sherlock swallowed and looked away for a second before asking, "For what?"

"...Everything," John chuckled weakly, forcing his eyes to stay open. "You... You are an amazing man, Sherlock... Absolutely brilliant... You could have chosen not to help people, but you did... In that way, Sherlock, despite of what you said... You are a hero. Nobody else might think so, Sherlock, but... You are my hero, and my best friend..."

John paused, taking a shaky breath.

"...You found me, when I had nothing," John continued, getting sentimental despite knowing how Sherlock felt about it all. He ignored the hushed voices around them and removed his hand from Sherlock's cheek to take his hand. He squeezed it tightly. "...You saved my life, Sherlock... It's alright to let me go, now..."

"Don't... Don't say that, John..." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to lie, to tell John he'd be alright. He knew John wouldn't be saying what he was if he didn't think he'd die for certain. Sherlock knew, John knew, Moriarty knew, and strangers now know. John was going to die.

"...It's okay, Sherlock..." John's voice was a whisper now. A high-pitched, soft, and uneven whisper. Sherlock bit his lip and turned his head, trying not to cry in front of the doctor.

The two stayed in silence for awhile, the only sounds being the heavy breathing of the soldier, and scraping teeth of the detective, and the murmurs of the bystanders. Sherlock saw a flash of light.

"...People.. are definitely going to talk now," Sherlock cracked a smile, turning back to John. He laughed and sighed.

"I guess it doesn't matter now, though, does it? They'd believe anything... Us being together... You, not being who you say you are... I bet by the end of the week, they'll intertwine the two and say I committed suicide because I couldn't stand the rumors about you..."

"You can't stand the rumors about me," Sherlock added before he could stop himself. He was glad John just passed it off with a laugh.

"Yeah... Either way, it doesn't matter..."

Sherlock was at a loss of words, so searching for something non-caustic and reassuring, he squeezed his hand and said, "I'll ward them off, don't worry..."

"...I don't care either way, Sherlock..." John smiled tenderly, and relaxed, his head swiveling so he was looking straight up at the sky, not diagonal at Sherlock's blue eyes and mysterious cheekbones.

Sherlock took the opportunity to look into the crowd, analyzing people do distract himself. For once in his life, he felt distress, and he didn't like it. He didn't like having emotions, or feeling human. He wanted it gone.

"Sher..." John's voice broke again. Sherlock instantly snapped his attention back to the man.

"...Yes, John?"

"..Th..thank you for.. b-being my friend..." _Even though it got you killed..._Sherlock stopped himself.

John closed his eyes for a bit longer than his regular blink. Sherlock panicked.

"John? Oh, God, John... Stay with me, please... Please, John... stay with me," he pleaded.

John managed another weak smile, but he couldn't speak easily now. The more blood that was shed, the heavier his eyes became.

"Sher...lock..." John's eyes fluttered shut, and didn't open.

(Warning: Character Death) Sherlock finally broke, dropping his head down to his head down to his stilled chest, his hair mingling with the bloody clothing. He heard sirens but disregarded them, seeing it disrespectful to pay attention to anything else other than John at the moment. He allowed himself to cry quietly, his hair guarding his face from pesky cameras. A few, warm, depressed tears fell down to join John Watson's blood.

"Sherlock~" a familiar, cheery voice sang. Sherlock looked up quickly, seeing the half-dead, bloody-headed James Moriarty. He raised a gun steadily, training it on Sherlock and John, through the dispersing crowd.

"Bye Bye~" He pulled the trigger, and Sherlock's eyes instinctively followed the bullet. A pain shot through his left leg and arm, and his cheek was warm with splattered, foreign blood.

Moriarty had made sure John was dead- He shot him in the head.

"John!" Sherlock screamed, ripping himself away from the body to collapse directly beside him, hiding his face in his arms by John's waist. He ignored the screams, gasps, and Moriarty falling, dead.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry!" Sherlock sobbed, images of John's face flashing through his mind a million miles a minute. He hated feeling human, he hated it! Emotions were so unnecessary and painful...

Before he could retrieve his senses, he was pulled away from John's body. Sherlock reached for his best friend desperately, trying to grab onto him one last time. He got his hand, but it was promptly ripped away. John was picked up and laid on a stretcher. Sherlock was dragged to a separate emergency van, a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. He took it to good use this time.

"Holmes!"

"Sherlock, dear..."

Sherlock's watery eyes opened, and he looked shakily up at the two, perfectly fine and un-injured adults.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

_It was just John. His one and only true friend... The only one who could burn him._


End file.
